Privacy
by CoralLautner
Summary: Privacy is a rare thing between a master and a servant, which Jace Lightwood knows all too well as the Vice President's son. When spirited maid Clary comes to work for their family, they both wish for a little distance. There is no hope for a relationship between a rich boy and a lowly maid, a fact Clary knows all too well. They may discover secrecy is not all its cracked up to be
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: This is my new fic! It's very different to my usual writing style and it does not mean I have forgotten Paris in the Summertime. I will be updating that just as regularly as normal. I hope you guys enjoy it!**_

'_**Sometimes the prize is not worth the costs. The means by which we achieve victory are as important as the victory itelf'**_

" _Privacy is a rare thing between a master and a servant, a fact which Jace Lightwood knows all too well as the Vice President's son. When spirited Irish maid Clary comes to work for their family, they both wish for a little more distance. There is no hope for a relationship between a handsome rich boy and a lowly maid, a fact Clary knows all too well. They may discover secrecy is not all it is cracked up to be"_

Robert Lightwood surveyed his office like a royal observing his kingdom from a pedestal. He stood severely upright and gazed down the oblong length of the Vice President's chambers. It was sparsely furnished as his predecessor had only just vacated but the trimmings remained. The walls were papered with a tasteful burgundy pattern, dark teak skirting boards to match the vast dark wood desk that was littered with words of congratulations and admiration.

It had been a long and wearying campaign. Eleven years he had struggled through to get to his prestigious position and it had cost him much. He had even adopted a young boy, together with his wife, in order to secure his position. No candidate had done more than he to portray the perfect family man.

He thought of his adopted son now. The child who came from nothing and now bore his family name had been one of his greatest and worst decisions. The American public had delighted in viewing the young ward grow accustomed to his new social class and then Robert had just been a lowly governor. The problem was that Jace was just so unlike what Robert had hoped to transform him into.

In a way he was better.

Robert reflected on Jace's easy charming of their most difficult guests, his ability to leave the sternest of politicians in bouts of helpless laughter or his prowess in making the severe bodyguards that surrounded the Lightwood family abandon all proprietary. He insisted the servants address him as Jace and detested formality. His sarcasm at the expense of televisions wittiest interviewers left him loved by the population.

But he was reckless, wild and uncaring for their position in society. Alec and Isabelle his two eldest biological children were contained and manneredly in public. There were whispers and rumours in the media but not a single publication had proof. With Jace it was the opposite. There were no whispers or rumours because cold solid fact was visible in every raunchy photograph.

He had a taste for women, something Robert found to be bonding between himself and his adopted son but he was not discreet about it. That was why he had arranged the coupling of Jace and Governor Barrett's daughter. Now that he had been elected he had no choice but to ensure they wed and delighted the public further. Robert sank into the plush leather chair and delighted himself with the prospect that tomorrow he would begin to organise his domain. He would choose the staff of his house first, he pondered. A Vice President could not run a country if he had to run his own house.

He chanced a glance at the picture of his family that sat atop his desk, so far the only personal adornment of the large office. They stood grouped, Robert with his arms around them all. His wife smiled at the camera, as beautiful as she was icy, her cheekbones as high as her position in society, her love for her children radiating from her eyes. Maryse's left arm curved almost imperceptibly inwards as if she shrunk away from her husband's touch. Alec stood on his Father's other side, his smile slightly unsure but his eyes piercing. His dark hair was the exact shade of black as his mother's but his strong jaw was that of his father's. His only daughter Isabelle had her mother's beauty with none of Maryse's frostiness. She was no pampered princess, quite the rebel if Robert allowed himself to admit it but she had at least not disgraced the family. Young Max was the light of everyone's life. He was quietly contained with an air that he was wise beyond his years of nine. His childish innocence kept them sane in the midst of so much turmoil. Jace was at the forefront of the picture, Max seated carefully on his knees. His smile charmed people and for that he was a valuable asset to Robert.

Robert cast his thoughts away from his family and turned to thoughts of the pleasures that awaited him now that his campaign was over. He relished in the ability to control and there was plenty he could control now. Simpler pleasures occurred to him suddenly, the idea of beautiful maids awaiting his command. They had always had servers but nothing on such a grand scale. He would scarcely have to wash himself now and that pleased him. He deserved adoration for his dedication.

He pressed his forefinger to the intercom and muttered to his secretary who sat proudly outside his door on her first day of work. Moments later she entered through the teak door, balancing a tray of pastries. Robert glimpsed an agent standing guard at the door follow Maisie's path into the office. She was very beautiful, he conceded, but not his type. He had loved a blonde before and it had not ended well. He favoured a brunette or a woman with inky black hair now. Like his wife. Although their relationship was fraught he could not deny she was one of the most stunning women he had ever laid eyes on.

"Vice President." Maisie smiled and seemed to almost curtsey. He bestowed upon her a perfunctory nod which seemed to delight her.

Before the door could close behind her it was swung open and Robert's adopted son entered with a loping grace. Robert sighed and reached for the teapot.

"Robert." Jace grinned, settling into a chair opposite the impressive desk. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Shouldn't you be getting ready for the ball?" There was to be a ball in celebration of President Morgenstern and Vice President Lightwood's victory that evening.

"Ah." Jace said, reaching for a Danish pastry and shoving it into his mouth. "About that."

Robert shook his head. He had seen too many of Jace's antics throughout the years.

Jace spoke then, crumbs spraying everywhere.

"I seem to have run into a slight problem."


	2. Chapter 2 : First Impressions

_**A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I really appreciate the reviews, the follows and the favourites.**_

"_**Life is a dream for the wise, a game for the fool, a comedy for the rich and a tragedy for the poor"**_

Clary was late for her first day of her new job which did not surprise her in the slightest. As her mother not so fondly recalled, she had in fact been late for her own birth. Clary sincerely hoped she would be extremely late for her own funeral. At eighteen years of age she had no desire for death any time soon.

She hurried through the city centre, her dark green trench coat boiling her from the inside out. A force of habit that she began wearing her coat once September rolled around. It was nearly always necessary in Ireland. The warm air pervaded the muggy city but the occasional gentle breeze blew Clary's curls away from her sticky neck.

She reached the glass-walled coffee shop and spotted Magnus' majestic glittery spikes. Her dealings on receiving the job had been with the elderly house manager Imogen, who ran the Vice President's household with a frosty, iron grip. Clary had been severely grateful to hear Magnus would meet with her twice before bringing her to work. She had met him the day previously to sign a non-disclosure agreement, a novelty for Clary. Magnus himself had been a novelty, a winning smile that seemed to glimmer as much as his blue glitter encrusted lids did.

Now he enveloped her in a sandalwood scented hug. He was the Lightwood's extravagant personal stylist but his personality did not conform to the Lightwood's dress. As far as Clary could tell from the magazines she had rapidly perused last night, they were always impeccably and formally dressed. Magnus on the other hand not so much.

Today his pants were grey leather and his t-shirt a shocking pink. Studded boots put him two feet above Clary. Her curls gave her some height at least.

"Ah Clarissa," He smiled at her. "Long time no see little leprechaun."

"You saw me yesterday." She reminded him gently.

He shrugged. "Technicalities."

"Aren't we going to the Vice President's manor?" Clary asked confused as Magnus beckoned a waitress.

"Are you joking?" Magnus laughed, fishing a plastic card out of his pocket. "This is the staff credit card. Now what are we having?"

Clary had a healthy respect for money and as such was shocked at Magnus' audacity. But she also had a healthy respect for food and ordered a cup of tea and a steaming plate of waffles. She cared little for the taste of coffee.

Once they had devoured their breakfast and Magnus had shared with her a steaming vat of household gossip, ("Imogen asked me if she could borrow one of Isabelle's leather miniskirts last night.") they left for the manor. It took Magnus just one wave of a bejewelled hand and a chauffeured BMW appeared before them. Clary slid into the supple leather and could not contain an unladylike sound at the feel of the expensive material.

"I take it you're not used to such luxuries." Magnus said, inspecting his manicured nails.

Clary smiled at him. "Is it that obvious?"

Magnus said nothing, which Clary took as an affirmative. "No I'm not. I grew up with my parents in a little flat outside Dublin. We never had much. I've been a maid since I was sixteen and moved here."

"Tough job but someone's gotta do it." Magnus sung, startling the driver.

Clary wasn't sure if she agreed with that sentiment but kept her mouth shut.

The Lightwood's drive swept upwards in a paved arc to one of the biggest houses Clary had ever seen. It was like the White House's slightly younger, slightly more colourful relation.

After being cleared by security, the driver sped Magnus and Clary to the house, dropping them directly outside the house. Clary's Converse crunched satisfyingly loud on the flecked gravel.

"Good service," She commented as the driver leaped out of the car and handed her the luggage she had stowed in the trunk. Magnus grinned but the driver just respectfully tipped his hat.

An elegantly dressed man threw open the double doors and welcomed them staunchly. Clary looked around the tastefully decorated foyer anxiously. It was littered with scuttling maids and staff. At her previous houses Clary had been the only member of staff. Before she could say a word, Imogen hurried up to Clary, her modest, tartan skirt swishing at her calves. Her silver hair is scraped severely back from her face.

"Ah Clarissa you're here." She cast a disdainful look at Magnus as she spoke. He wiggled his fingers at her and she scoffed. "The family are congregated in the upstairs drawing room. I shall introduce you now."

"What now? Oh Jesus." Clary swore in surprise. Imogen shrieked. "Oh shit sorry. No swearing. Got it."

Magnus shunted her up the sweeping staircase in pursuit of Imogen. Imogen looked back at the two of them and narrowed her eyes. "Must you come Magnus?"

"I must." He said solemnly, before winking at Clary. Clary trailed reluctantly after Imogen, her case banging against the marble stairs. Magnus on the other hand bounded eagerly behind her. The stairs were a stormy marble with complimentary cream walls. The walls were stark of decoration but Clary knew the Lightwoods had only lived here a fortnight.

At the top of the stairs Imogen whirled around. "Now Clarissa. There are rules when speaking to the family. Your reference was quite adamant that you knew how to behave in proper company but I," She took in Clary's bright curls and jeans and coat ensemble. "I am not so sure."

Clary felt the urge to strike Imogen but averted her frustration into taming her hair with her fingers. Rude bitch, she thought savagely. Imogen continued relentlessly.

"You shall address Mr Vice President as Mr Vice President at all times. You shall address The Second Lady of the United States as the Second Lady of the United States or Mrs Lightwood at all times. You shall address Master Alexander Lightwood as Master Lightwood at all times…"

Clary suspected she may have lost consciousness for a moment. She certainly wasn't paying attention to what Imogen's brittle voice was chanting.

As Imogen continued in this vein, Magnus' fingers startled Clary awake as they wove into her hair and adeptly pulled it into a braided bun. Finally exhausted, Imogen glanced at Clary's hair and could not find a disapproving word.

Without a word she stalked from the cream carpeted hall to the similarly carpeted drawing room. Mother of God this place was dull, Clary thought as she imagined painting the walls a vivid sunset colour.

The scene inside the room was explosive. Vice President Lightwood stood tensely by the oak wood fireplace, his hand gripping its mantle and his body slightly angled away from where Clary, Imogen and Magnus stood by the door. Clary had only seen him in pictures online and was startled by his overwhelming presence in real life. He was an extremely tall man, his grey suit cut so sharply its seams could have cut glass. His wife sat on the nearest armchair, lavender suit pants and cream silk shirt perfectly pressed. Her glossy dark bun was a lot neater than Clary's. Her lips were pursed but her eyes quite expressionless.

A young man who Clary presumed was the eldest Lightwood child, or Master Alexander as the case may be, sat on the edge of his seat, his arms folded calmly on his lap but a constant wince crossed his face. His dark hair fell into his eyes and he seemed to look pleadingly towards the window. The peacekeeper, Clary assumed. His sister sat by his side, identical in looks but opposites in attitude. She twirled her poker-straight ink hair around her fingers aimlessly. Miss Isabelle slouched against the cushions causing her short navy swing dress to ride further up her slim thighs. Her long legs crossed at the ankles and her high heeled navy pumps dangled off her heels.

Whether they knew it or not, the entire family was inclined slightly toward the window and Clary's eyes were drawn there. In the dazzling light blazing from the arced windows Master Jace stood. His posture was as tense as his stepfather's, his left hand in a fist and a sparkling mountain of shattered glass lay by his feet. His hair was crisp white gold where the sun hit it and his face wore an expression of deadly fury. An angel cast down from heaven, Clary thought. His mouth formed a list of profanities that shocked all but Clary. In her hometown, cursing was second nature to all. Almost their native tongue.

"I will not," Jace bellowed, his fists tightening reflexively and Clary observed a trickle of blood drip onto the carpet. Had he crushed a glass in his hands?

"Jace," Robert began, placing his hand across his eyes in a weary gesture. "It's the only option. You have no choice but to."

Jace swore again and Imogen visibly recoiled. Magnus cleared his throat politely. Heads swivelled and each Lightwood wore an expression of surprise. They looked briefly united.

Imogen recovered her composure and almost curtsied, speaking directly to the Vice President.

"Mr Vice President, Mrs Lightwood, Masters and Miss Lightwood. I would just borrow a moment of your time to introduce the new personal hand maid you requested. This is Clarissa Fray."

No one said anything for a moment and Clary was unsure what to do. She waved at them and Imogen sighed.

Maryse rose slowly from the armchair and crossed the room, her heels sinking in the plush carpet. She towered above Clary and looked down at her through hooded eyes.

"A pleasure to meet you Clarissa." She touched Clary's hand gently with her own in the briefest imitation of a handshake.

"You too, Mrs Lightwood. And please call me Clary." Clary said warmly but she could tell Maryse had stopped paying attention. The rest of the family nodded in her direction and Clary was feeling distinctly disgruntled.

"Clarissa will attend to any personal needs like dressing, laundry collection etc. and will be your liaison between yourselves and the other staff when I am unavailable."

The family seemed too caught up in their own troubles to pay any of them the slightest attention. Only Jace replied.

"Oh, a maid that can do laundry_ and_ help us dress. I can see why you appointed her as our personal maid. Someone give this girl a raise." His tone was snarky and his eyes narrowed in Clary's direction. She stared him down angrily for a moment but suddenly remembered her place and glanced away.

Imogen looked flustered and opened her mouth but Clary knew she could handle this on her own.

"I'm also trained in first aid." She said clearly, looking pointedly at Jace's hand. "Master Lightwood." She added as an afterthought.

Jace's eyes glinted. "Oh thank god. I've never put a bandage on before. It's a miracle you arrived when you did."

Clary could sense his sarcasm and pushed down her fiery response, refusing to respond to the bait. She needed this job.

"Just let her clean your goddamned hand Jace." Alexander muttered.

Jace seemed to relent and stalked through the drawing room. He passed Clary without looking at her but when he reached the doorway he beckoned her imperiously to follow. She did, nodding politely to her employers before leaving with her bag. She followed Jace to a bathroom across the hall. His dark jeans slung low on his hips and his t-shirt looked rumpled and slept in. He whipped around as soon as they were both inside and fixed her with a stony look.

"That's ok there's no rush, you take your time. Not like I'm bleeding to death on my mother's crystal tiles or anything."

Clary shrugged off her velvet coat and let it pool at her feet. "Where do you keep the first aid kit Master Lightwood?" She asked calmly.

He sank onto the side of the jet powered taupe bathtub. "In the cabinet under the sink, Clarissa."

She moved to the sink and grimaced at herself in the mirror. She hated her full name. She retrieved the dark green case and returned to Jace's side. Dark droplets dripped steadily onto the tiles and she grabbed his hand hurriedly, covering his wound with her hand. He raised his eyebrows at her and she blushed.

"I apologise Master Lightwood." She mumbled, busying herself with the first aid kit. He ignored her.

She knelt beside him and touched his injured hand tentatively, spreading open the fingers to clean it with antiseptic fluid. He did not wince.

"You have an unusual accent." He commented in a slightly bored voice.

"Unusual, Master Lightwood?" She replied blandly. This was what was expected of her. Polite distance when speaking to those she served. She should neither agree nor disagree if possible, never voice her own opinion unless expressly asked to do so and never engage the family in conversation that may annoy them.

"I believe that is what I said, yes." He replied drily, looking down at her with luminous eyes. "Although I do appreciate your ability to act like a parrot. You should put that on your resumé for when you inevitably quit this job."

"Why would I quit?" Clary asked, straining to keep her voice level. He was extremely annoying. She focused on unrolling a length of plaster.

"I can be extremely trying." He said, almost grinning. "You would not be the first servant to grow tired of my antics. Nor would you be the first servant to grow tired of hiding your blatant attraction to me."

She levelled his gaze with his for a moment before beginning to wrap his hand. He had long musician's fingers that Clary suspected had never worked a day in their life.

"I would not count on me quitting Master Lightwood. It has been a long time since pretty rich boys have had an effect on me."

"You think I'm pretty?" He was truly grinning now, feigning embarrassment. "Well I am flattered."

She tied a knot in the length of plaster, securing it to his hand. She may have pulled it tighter than necessary. "I live to please Master Lightwood."

"I do hope that's true Clarissa." He wrapped a finger around an escaping curl and tugged sharply. He stood up abruptly and made to leave.

"And I prefer to be called Clary." She muttered defiantly, staring at his retreating back.

He did not look back at her as he spoke. "And I do not really care."


	3. Chapter 3: A Job is a Job

_**A/N: Hello! I love your reviews even though I don't actually know how to reply to them… Thanks!**_

Magnus found her there, kneeling by the bath a few minutes later. She was deep in thought, replaying her meeting with the Lightwoods over again and did not immediately hear the clack of his high heeled boots until his knees became level with her vision.

"Hey what you doing down there sweetheart?" He asked her, hands firmly on his leather clad hips. "Imogeneral says I have to show you to your room and then get your uniform ready."

Clary sighed and rose reluctantly. She was going to have her work cut out for her here.

He led her out of the bathroom and she hurried her short legs to keep up with him. They walked for what seemed like an eternity through gold and cream hallways. She was considering that this may be the cushiest job in the entire world if this was the way to the servant's quarters.

Magnus stopped abruptly, throwing open a random door and they faced into a grim, grey stone staircase. Clary swallowed.

He ran a few steps before clocking that she was not following. "C'mon." He urged. "Imogen will have my hair cut off and buried in China if you're not presentable by lunch time."

"I'll cut your hair off myself if you're about to tell me we have to live in a dungeon." Clary snapped, disconcerted by the gloomy atmosphere of the narrow stairwell.

"Oh don't be so melodramatic." Magnus waved her exclamation away and continued down the stairs. She followed at a slower pace. "Do you honestly think I would live in a dungeon for my work?"

"A job is a job," Clary muttered, feeling her hand along the wall for fear she'd trip.

Eventually the stairwell opened up into an inviting common room. It was split in two, one side a large kitchenette and dining table, the other recreational with a television and bookcases. The walls were a mixture of yellow and red, reflecting the shining light from the bulbs and bringing a pleasant glow to the underground chamber. A small collection of maids in multi-coloured uniforms of the same style milled about wiping down the long wooden dining table and sweeping the floor. Two men in black suit pants and tucked in white shirts lounged on a grey velvet sofa, animatedly playing a video game. Magnus stalked through the room to a door on the opposite side, waving to those he passed. Few glanced in Clary's direction and even fewer smiled or greeted her. She felt like a latecomer to the world's weirdest secondary school where you had to call your teachers 'master'.

High school, she corrected herself. They called it high school here.

"So," She threw out casually as she and Magnus sauntered down yet another corridor. "Why am I so late to the party? Everyone else seems to have been hired weeks ago."

Magnus shrugged. "There are rumours."

She waited but he said nothing and she sighed, exasperated.

"Rumours about what exactly?"

"Rumours about the Master Lightwood who is not really a Lightwood." Magnus opened a beechwood door off of the corridor.

Jesus Christ it was like getting blood out of a turnip.

"What sort of rumours about the Master Lightwood who- oh this is ridiculous just answer my question!" Clary resisted the urge to stamp her foot.

Magnus ignored her, bending to rifle through a white chest of drawers. Clary took a moment to take in the room. It was simple, white and small. Two narrow single beds lined the walls, covered in a clean white singlet. It was again, windowless but it was at least brightly lit with a dimmer switch, Clary noted in relief. Each bed had a locker adorned with a lamp and alarm clock while at the foot of the narrow bedsteads there was a white chest of drawers and mirror. So this is my life now, Clary considered. It could be worse.

Magnus exclaimed in delight, his leather pants squeaking loudly as he rose. He thrust into her hands a clump of soft emerald material without a word. He disappeared out the door, shaking his head.

She followed him to the door hurriedly and closed it, locking it firmly. She made to run a hand through her curls before remembering it was wound into a bun. She exhaled slowly and loudly. This job was going to give her stress wrinkles.

Clary changed deftly into her uniform, folding her clothes methodically and sliding them precisely into the drawer. She hugged the dark velvet to her chest and inhaling the scent, pretending she could smell her mother since the last time they had hugged. It had been two years ago. She folded the coat expertly and slid it into a drawer of its own. A maid's habits.

She glanced at herself in the mirror and was surprisingly pleased at the effect. The emerald matched her eyes and the cut of the uniform was fitting. It was an appropriate length, hitting slightly above her knee. Shiny black buttons laced up the front so it was a neat, shirt dress. Short sleeves with black cuffs left her arms bare and freckled for the world to see. Clary debated whether she wanted to risk her position this early by donning her converse underneath but decided it wasn't worth it. Boy did she need the money.

Instead she reluctantly slid into the black pantyhose and low, patent heels set out for her by the door. Clary sank onto the side of the bed and shut her eyes. Burned onto her lids were images of rolling green fields and dark rain and steaming cups of tea. It was the loud beep of an intercom that drew her from her thoughts.

"_Clarissa Fray, Miss Lightwood has requested your presence before lunch."_

Oh dear Lord, Clary sighed. It was going to be a long day.

She kept her head down as she hurried through the staff common room but it was mainly empty. Clearly she was not the only one who was called to work.

Clary climbed the steps, her chest heaving in exhaustion. Her frame was not built for exercise. Clary gazed up and down the wide hall and realised she hadn't an iota where Miss Lightwood's room was. Stupidly her pride wouldn't let her ask. She did not want to be the newbie and even though she evidently was she was not going to act like one.

Several stitches and near heart attacks later she chanced upon a door that read Isabelle in gold block letters. Hmm, Clary thought wryly. I wonder if this it.

She knocked politely until a low husky voiced called for her to come in. The room inside was just as dazzling as the door. Three walls were shimmering silver paint while the last was a plain white, streaked with what appeared to be dashes of glitter, mascara, lipsticks and other beauty products. The effect was almost nauseous.

Isabelle lay reading a magazine, lounged like a panther across black silk sheets, her four poster bed positioned against the multi-coloured wall. The room was at least twice the size as Clary's whole apartment. It had a large bay window, the seat strewn with cushions and two doors led off from the room. Clary recognised one as an en suite bathroom but could not determine what the other could be.

She had no further chance to look as that moment Isabelle glanced up from her magazine. Her beautiful face was neutral, showing neither pleasure nor displeasure at Clary's presence. She tossed the magazine to the floor where it lay amongst other discarded objects. She then threw a curtain of inky hair over her shoulder and smiled tentatively at Clary.

"Hey I'm Isabelle Lightwood, as you probably know."

Clary stared at her blankly. She had expected her to be a total bitch and she seemed…normal. Well as normal as the Vice President's daughter could possibly be.

Isabelle looked a little put out by Clary's non reaction so Clary shook herself awake. "Hello Miss Lightwood. I'm Clary." So far, so good.

"Normally the servants just address me as Miss Isabelle or whatever. If you're into the formal thing though don't let me stop you. Brush my hair now." Isabelle shrugged and leaped lightly off the bed, her swing dress revealing her golden thighs as she moved to the dresser. She possessed a sort of childlike innocence mixed with a sharp bite.

Clary just smiled blandly. Isabelle looked at her through the movie-star mirror. She narrowed her eyes and swung around, brandishing a hairbrush menacingly. "Are you mocking me?" She asked in a low voice.

Jesus, Clary thought, alarmed. This cailín was bipolar.

"No god no Miss Isabelle. I just don't know what to say. I'm trying to get used to what kind of family this is."

"What do you mean?" Isabelle looked confused. "We're just a normal family?"

Clary laughed incredulously but Isabelle's dark look silenced her. "Miss Isabelle." She said softly, taking a step toward her. "I mean no disrespect but your family is the furthest thing from normal." Isabelle seemed to be contemplative and Clary took her chance. She freed the hairbrush from Isabelle's grasp.

"I still don't understand what you mean." Isabelle seemed unsure whether to be offended or not. Clary took her arm gently and steered her to the black leather pouffe by the dressing table. Isabelle moved willingly and Clary searched her face in the mirror, wondering if she was high.

"Well," Clary spoke gingerly, as if addressing a child. "Vice-presidency and unfathomable riches aside, I walked in on a bit of a warzone this morning. I've been a maid for two years and I've learned first impressions don't always count. The persona you portray when meeting your staff for the first time depends on how you want them to view you." She paused and stroked the brush through Isabelle's silky hair. Isabelle stared at their reflection and raised her eyebrows, indicating for her to go on.

Clary took a breath. "Maids know everything. To you, we're barely people. We're not to be seen, not to be heard. They say the mark of a good maid is that you never even know you have one. But we are in a powerful position. We see and hear everything and if we're good at our job you may not even know we've seen or heard it. Thus, the families we serve need us to be loyal. And each employer has a different way of ensuring our loyalty. If you wanted me to be afraid of you, you would have been rude or threatening. If you wanted me to be on your side you may have complimented or cajoled me. You did neither. I need to discover what kind of person you are and devise a way for us to rub along comfortably. At the moment I don't know if you'd like a silent, shy maid or a talkative maid or a maid that you can treat like an equal or a maid that you can be feisty and spar with."

Isabelle pondered this for a moment. "I'd like a mixture of all of them." She said simply. "It's why I asked Imogen to get you to dress me for lunch."

Now it was Clary's turn to be confused. "You asked for me for a reason?"

"Yup," Isabelle twirled a lipstick in her hands absently. "My adopted brother is an asshole."

Clary stopped her continuous brushing in bafflement. Sure she knew Master Jace came across as an asshole but where did it come from?

"But you seemed to know how to handle him. I liked that about you. I'd like to talk to a girl who doesn't placate me. So I wanted you to talk to me."

"So you summoned me to help you brush your hair and change your underwear?" Clary shot at her.

Isabelle smiled at her in the mirror almost apologetically.

"You couldn't have just said a simple hello in the hallway." Clary grumbled under her breath but went back to reluctantly smoothing Isabelle's long curtain of hair.

"I thought this might be my only chance to talk to you before she comes along."

"Who's she?" Clary asked, her interest peaked now.

"Oh you'll find out." Isabelle expression was sullen at the mention of this elusive female. "Braid it now."

This relationship was the strangest Clary had ever come across. So far she had been treated with a mixture of affection as a friend and contempt as a servant by Isabelle. She decided she'd just roll with whatever Isabelle wanted and keep an eye out for dilated pupils. She was unused to working with such straight and silky hair so it took a few tries to plait Isabelle's hair into a long woven strand down her back. Pretty pleased with herself, Clary took a step back and waited for Isabelle's nod of approval. It didn't exactly come.

"Ok. Well we're heading to the White House for lunch in an hour so do you think you'd have time to iron a dress for me?"

Clary rolled her eyes at the fact Isabelle thought it would take an hour to iron a dress. "Sure Miss Isabelle. I'll try my darnedest."

She said it sarcastically but Isabelle didn't seem to pick up on it. She beamed at Clary and skipped to the mysterious door. It opened to reveal a room the size of Clary's apartment, lined with racks of clothes, shoes and accessories. Clary gripped the wrought iron bed post, feeling weak at the knees.

Less than a minute later, Isabelle reappeared with a slinky blush number, several gaping holes visible. Clary raised her eyebrows and Isabelle had the grace to flush crimson.

"I know it's a little…But have you seen the President's son? Sebastian Morgenstern is one ace chico."

Clary mouthed 'ace', having never heard the phrase before. "What does 'ace' mean?"

Isabelle looked at her in surprise before realisation dawned on her face. "Oh it means like great, hot, good-looking that sort of thing. Don't worry my last maid was Hispanic too. Granted you don't look Mexican but I can help you learn English if you like." Isabelle enunciated each word, clearly trying to help her pale, redheaded, Hispanic maid.

Clary was going to have permanent eye strain from the excessive eye rolling. "I'm not Hispanic." She snapped, snatching the dress from Isabelle's hand. "I'm Irish. You know in Europe?"

"Oh." Isabelle's arm dropped to her sides. "I dated an Irish guy before. He had red hair too. Is that like an affliction there?"

Clary sighed and threw the dress over her arm. "I'll be back in ten minutes."

She stepped into the corridor and tried to conjure up a mental map of how to get to the laundry room.

A door slammed opposite her, jolting her eyes open. Jace lounged against what Clary assumed was his own bedroom door, his golden eyes focussed on her.

"Master Lightwood." She mumbled quietly and began to hurry away.

"Hey, you." He called after her. Clary stopped and inhaled slowly through her nose. Hold your tongue, hold your tongue, hold your goddamned tongue, she chanted internally.

She pivoted slowly, almost teetering on her heels. "Master Lightwood?"

He hadn't moved from his position but his gaze had followed her. He ran a hand through his shaggy blonde curls and seemed to be battling with himself. "I know I was an ass earlier."

Clary waited for an apology before it dawned on her that that was probably it.

She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of accepting that pitiful attempt. She pivoted on her heel again and headed back down the hall.

"You caught me at an extremely bad time. That's really unusual by the way, I am generally flawlessly charming."

She turned again. She was going to have to lie down after all this eye rolling and body twirling.

"Really?"

"Really." He vowed solemnly. His grin was easy now.

"What's the bad time?" She asked, forgetting herself completely.

He looked at his feet for a moment and when he gazed at her again his grin had taken on a slightly feral twist.

"II'm getting married."

_**A/N: I hope you enjoyed that and thank you for reading! **_


	4. Chapter 4: Mi Amiga

_**A/N: I am so sorry I haven't updated, things have been crazy! School, getting my driver's licence and other teenage issues have just gotten in the way of my writing. I apologise and hope you enjoy this chapter.**_

"Married?" Clary repeated, astonished. "But aren't you like…?"

"22?" Jace finished for her. "Yeah. But apparently the nation loves a young marriage almost as much as they love a Presidential wedding." His tone was bitter and his smile mocking.

He's clearly not on board with this, Clary observed. She herself couldn't fathom getting married at that age. "I- uh- when?"

"Well," He mulled, lounging against the door frame. "I haven't actually proposed yet. According to my dear Father, that's what extravagant family dinners are for. Preferably, the one tomorrow night."

This family must be the cause of hundreds of tension headaches, Clary thought as she rubbed her hands wearily across her eyes. Was Mr. Lightwood forcing his son to get married to further his campaign? That sounded extremely over dramatic. Well it did until a horrible thought clanged in Clary's head.

"Did you get her pregnant?" She asked her voice colder than she had intended it to be. He looked at her, puzzled.

"Did I get who-oh." He swept a stray lock of hair out of his eyes as clarity and understanding lit them. "You think that's the reason I'm getting married?" His voice was laced with anger.

"It would make the most sense." Clary said, defiantly defending her question. She found it hard to believe he was marrying for love.

His gold eyes sought her green ones and they were hard and unflinching. He looked at her with the contempt rich people reserve for those they believe to be beneath them. "If you believe I'm that noble Clarissa then you clearly don't know anything about me." He laughed a short brittle laugh.

She tucked Isabelle's dress into the crook of her arm and stared him down. "No, Master Lightwood." She paused as she turned to continue down the hallway. "No I don't."

She strode to the laundry room, sick and tired of delving into the bowels of this mansion. They really needed to install some sort of teleporting system, she thought in longing. Or even an elevator.

Years of practice meant her ironing was quick and efficient. Before she could say "Jace is an ass", she was outside Isabelle's door, deliberately not looking at Jace's. She knocked rapidly until the husky voice bid her entrance once more.

Isabelle shrieked in delight at the sight of her dress. Clary winced at the sound and held it out to her. Why would a girl get so excited at the sight of a lump of material? A very miniscule lump of material.

She shirked her robe to the ground immediately and Clary hastily averted her eyes. Isabelle cocked her head at Clary's obvious awkwardness and placed her manicured hands on her lace clad hips. "You've never seen a girl in her underwear before?"

"Not a girl with a body twice as nice as my own, Miss Isabelle." Clary admitted before cursing herself

Isabelle just laughed and slid into her dress. She looked pretty breath taking in her peach scrap of material that floated to mid-thigh and had cut outs revealing triangles of golden skin. She tossed her braid over one shoulder and sat at the dressing table once again. Clary moved silently to her side, quietly ready to assist.

"Unknot the straps on my heels now." Miss Isabelle ordered, drifting a mascara wand across her eyelashes. Clary coughed politely and Isabelle hastily added a 'please'.

Clary picked up the sequinned heels and winced at their height. Isabelle smiled wickedly . "What can I say? I like 'em big."

Clary chuckled despite herself and proceeded to untangle the delicate straps from each other.

"Do you speak Irelandish?" Miss Isabelle asked idly.

Clary performed her now signature eye roll and answered. "Irish? Yeah. Fluently."

"Teach me something then." She smiled encouragingly at Clary and fumbled through her drawers for another make up utensil.

Clary folded her hands in her lap for a moment, considering. "Go raibh maith agat." She said finally.

"Bless you." Isabelle murmured through pursed lips.

Clary laughed outright at that. "No. Go raibh maith agat. Guh- rev-mah-ag-ut. It means thank you."

"Oh." Isabelle repeated it slowly and Clary kept her at it until she was satisfied Isabelle knew it.

"Neat. Go raibh maith agat, Clary."

Clary winked at her before setting the shoes on the white dressing table beside Isabelle.

"No problem, Miss Isabelle. Tomorrow, 'please'."

Half an hour later, Clary was transporting another load of washing when she rounded the corner into the foyer, spotting the Lightwoods grouped around the door. She halted hurriedly and watched them exit, turned out in their finest for lunch with the President. Mrs Lightwood dropped the diamond earring she was donning at the exact moment Clary dropped a dirty grey sock. The irony.

At five pm the Lightwoods had not returned and Clary was free for the evening. She had no social life or any sort of friend in Washington so she decided to return to the common room and hopefully breach the tight knit group of maids she had witnessed chattering together earlier today. She slunk past the few people who littered the common room and decided a shower and a change of clothes would leave her fresh for socialising.

She was lining her novels beside her bed when a honeyed voice caused her to jump and slam her head against the bed frame.

"_Dios mio. Una chica blanca."_

Clary rubbed her head cautiously. Thankfully her vast quantity of hair had cushioned the blow. She stood up and turned to face this liquid voiced intruder.

A Hispanic young woman with long honey brown, dreaded hair stood at the doorway, hands firmly on her voluptuous hips. Her uniform was the same style as Clary's but it was a sky blue colour, complimenting her sallow skin. Clary had spent two years mixing with mostly latina maids and was as fluent in Spanish as she was English or Irish.

"_Si mi amiga, una chica blanca."_ Clary grimaced at the girl.

The girl shook back her braided hair and crossed her tanned arms over her chest. "Usted habla espanol?"

She stared down the pretty girl. "Yes, yes I'm a white girl that speaks Spanish. Who are you?"

"I'm Maia." Her heavily accented voice was alluring but had a harsh edge to it. "This is my room." Marking her territory.

"Well it is my room too. I'm Clary, the new maid." She stuck her hand out in a peace offering but Maia ignored it.

"Oh I know who you are now _chica_. You're going to be Gwendolyn's _lacayo" _

Clary furrowed her brow, thrown. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Maia smirked, her dark lips pulling up at the corner. "You will _pequena pelirroja_, and for that I am sorry." She threw her hand out and thrusts Clary's up and down firmly. "Welcome to the family. I'll introduce you to the others."

"Let me take a quick shower and I'll be with you in ten." Clary smiled at her. Finally, a friend.

Ten minutes later Clary returned from the small bathroom opposite her bedroom, dressed more comfortably in dark rinse jeans and a loose white shirt. She dreaded to think what Imogen would think of her hair, dark red tendrils clinging damply to her back.

Maia swung her curvy legs from where she was perched on her snow white bed. No bedroom was going to be cleaner than a room shared by two maids.

She leaped from it as soon as Clary entered. "No such luck on the socialising chica, Imogen just called an emergency meeting."

Clary resisted the urge to bawl. "What could an emergency meeting of maids be about exactly?"

Maia grinned, teeth shining against her dark skin. "Apparently we have a proposal to plan."

_**A/N: I really, really hope you enjoyed reading that! Thank you for your support. **_


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